


Bottom Pair

by SoliTu



Series: Bad Beat Jackpot [2]
Category: Underfell - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alienstock Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Female Reader, Mild Gore, Reader Is Not Chara (Undertale), Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Real Areas, Sexual Content, Theft, Violence, gratuitous cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoliTu/pseuds/SoliTu
Summary: Saying that you're "stranded in Las Vegas," would be an exaggeration.But it sure as hell feels that way.Down a friend, you do what you can in order to avoid association with The Raid and it's surrounding area while trying your damnedest to make your way back home. Of course, that's easier said than done when you're new... companion seems to lack a clear destination beyond by your side, tormenting you.How does one salvage their life when such powerful forces are threatening to tear it apart?You don't know, but you're sure as shit going to find out.Whether these monsters want you to or not.
Relationships: Fell!GSans/Reader, Fell!GasterSans/Reader
Series: Bad Beat Jackpot [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1489784
Comments: 23
Kudos: 65





	Bottom Pair

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience and kindness.

Unsurprisingly, free-falling from a fifty-story building is terrifying.

Add to that the uncertainty of G’s magic and a safe landing; your current state of duress should be completely understandable.

Your plans really _are_ fucking stupid.

Moreover, what’s surprising is that you’ve yet to faint from the combination of actually falling and G’s use of his ability in rapid succession. He’s doing it to keep the two of you from dying, you know, but man is it fucking awful.

Maybe you should have taken your chance against Carmella.

Somewhere along the fall, you’d managed to adjust your positioning. Now you find yourself pathetically clutching G closely whilst shrieking into his ruddy shirt. “Please, G, please, please,” you witlessly start chanting, “please make this work.”

Ultimately, the end result all comes down to him and what he can do.

You are no longer part of this particular equation. 

The only indication of G actually replying is the vibration in his chest. And you wish that you could muster up the courage to open your eyes and look up at him. To open your mouth and ask questions in order to gauge how this may turn out. At the very least, you manage to open your mouth, but all that bursts forth are your own distressed wails. All of which are easily drowned out by the howling of the wind.

So, you continue to cling to your lifeline and take whatever comfort you can get, no matter how small. Like the rumble of G’s voice as he continues to talk despite your lack of response, and how tightly his arms are wrapped around your shoulders, and that, despite how absurdly dangerous the action is, he has positioned himself to fall underneath you— as if to shield you from the threat of the rapidly approaching concrete. To think that he has done so in some act of chivalry would be ludicrous, but a fleeting thought has you thinking that it’s awfully nice of him—despite however fruitless.

That little comfort that you manage to gather, however pleasant, does nothing to block or remedy the current situation, nor the new one involving your sudden need to vomit, despite having very little in your stomach. Thus, with your mouth clamped securely shut, you’re left with deciding if you want to pull G somehow closer to help stifle the building pressure, or push him away and at least spare him the repulsive mixture of gravity, wind, and regurgitated liquids and solids.

Those thoughts, however, are cut short as the two of you abruptly crash into water. It, understandably, stings like a motherfucker, but your relief far outweighs the pain. Though that relief is lessened just a bit as said water invades your nose and mouth when you so foolishly open it. Given that you weren’t prepared to be submerged in water, you haven’t much breath to hold.

Eyes opening in a frenzied panic to murky teal water, you struggle within G’s hold. It doesn’t take much to free yourself, as G seems to have acknowledged the severity of the situation. You swim as swiftly to the surface as you can, desperately fighting the urge to take an involuntary breath and receive lungs full of water.

Of course, you don’t do so swiftly enough, and your eyes clench shut as water floods your mouth. Your body becomes enfeebled, and fighting your way to the top would seem impossible, were you not close enough to break the surface now.

When you break it, you do so ungracefully, hacking, coughing, and gasping whilst trying to tread water and gain control over your body. Doing all of this while being virtually blinded by the sun, it takes quite a while for you to notice that G has yet to surface.

“G?” A paltry call that instills panic once more when you receive no response, turning in search for him.

He either used his magic to leave or…

The terror of drowning briefly crosses your mind and you stutter when taking another deep breath, just about to duck under. Yet you don’t.

Because fear digs in deep. The unpleasant sensation fresh and easily replicated in your mind.

But if he’s down there, you can’t just… _leave_ him.

That isn’t the type of person you are, or that you strive to be.

You’re under control now and drowning is nigh impossible because of that fact. So just— _go._

Another deep breath is taken, and you duck under, eyes open and searching for G.

He’s sunken to the bottom of the pool, stiff and unmoving, eyelight gone, a truly disconcerting sight that has you acting as swiftly as possible for both your sakes.

Thing is, you hadn’t expected him to be as heavy as he is. With buoyancy in play, the struggle is a little less, but a struggle none the less. And though the pool can’t be more than fifteen feet, it is fifteen too many when dealing with a lifeless body not made of eighty percent water.

Thus, you’re forced to abandon him a little over halfway up, hoping that he won’t sink faster than you can swim and take a breath before diving back down. Thankfully, confusingly, that is the case, and you make it back to G without him having sunken very far. Arms looping under his, you use everything you have to get the two of you to a shallow area.

You’re exhausted and haggard when you succeed, leaning G against the wall and thanking the kind bystanders walking along The Strip that help you and G out of the Bellagio Hotel’s lake. More so the monster nurse that reassures you of G’s alive, but unconscious state and, after your vehement insistence, does not call local paramedics.

You can only hope that he wakes sooner rather than later, lest Carmella and her people manage to make it out of the hotel—the Cosmopolitan, you realize— and go on the prowl. That isn’t likely, given the swarm of policemen that have arrived and the blocking of the street, but you already know that Carmella is capable of more than you initially understood.

So, you sit, wait, and think. Wait for him to regain consciousness. Wait for your mind to stop reeling at the situation. Think about your next move. Think about how you have to upend your life, disappear, and reappear as someone else. You don’t even know… where to begin. It’s all really starting to sink in, now, without the immediate threat. Maybe start by canceling your credit cards. You’re going to have to break your lease. How do you go about getting a new social?

“…Shit.” Leaning forward, you bring your knees up and rest your forehead against them. “Can you just turn out to actually be an alien? Maybe go back in time and help me fix this— “

“Don’t fuck with time, you’ll just make shit worse.” G’s raspy response startles you from your whingy introspection. “Thought you were smart— actually, judging from your ideas, I guess that’s _my_ bad.”

Well, that’s one way to find out that he’s awake, and apparently well enough to continue being a jerk. Scowling, your head lolls to the side, allowing you to look up at him. He stares straight ahead, sockets half-lidded as he adjusts, raising a knee and resting an arm on it.

You’d say that he looks the worse for wear, but he honestly looks just as disheveled as the day you met him. Just his default, you guess. But are also aware that he may very well be just as exhausted as you, given how much magic he has been using. Not that you’ve had much of an understanding of his magic pool to begin with.

“Can you stop _playing dead_? You’re really giving me agita.” You mumble, continuing to stare. “Like, I really have no baseline for your wellbeing.”

He gives a snort of laughter at that and his eye light rolls to rest on you. “Why the hell’re you always worrying about me?”

It’s a question you aren’t expecting, and don’t really know how to answer. So, you don’t. Choosing instead to look away from him and focus on passersby.

“Did I start to dust?” He asks emphatically and grunts as he stands.

That gives you pause because you have no idea why that fact hadn’t crossed your mind. And you guess he can see the slightly shocked recognition cross your face because he has no problem sparing a derisive laugh whilst offering a hand.

You can still feel his gaze on you, waiting for the answer to his rhetorical question that you won’t give. “We need to get outta here,” you say and stare at his outstretched hand for a beat before taking it, “and I’m hungry.”

G pulls you up, and you grimace, suddenly remembering that you’re clad in wet clothing. The heat will help, you know, but it won’t do so soon enough. You look at G and he doesn’t seem to care at all that he’s a soggy mess, hands shoved back into his pant pockets, lackadaisical demeanor on a different level.

“Any suggestions?” You ask offhand, looking around. “I’m also going to assume that you’re broke, all things considered, so I got you.”

He shrugs. “Nah. And, considering that I just saved your ass again; _you should.”_ Then he gives you that grin that you’ve grown uncomfortably comfortable with.

“Uh,” you scoff, “I just dragged your unconscious ass from the Fountains of Bellagio Lake, and I’d say that makes us even.”

“I’dda been fine.” He goads.

You smile despite yourself. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

\---

You haven’t been able to stop thinking about everything, not when you entered the restaurant, nor when your food arrived. On autopilot, you sit and eat in silence.

G notices.

He snaps gloved fingers several times much too close to your face, clearly impatient. “You with me now?” He asks after you lurch away and look up from your food, confused and irrationally incensed.

“What?” Your brows furrow. “What is it?”

G leans back in his seat then, long arm thrown across the back of the booth he occupies, feeling the necessity to fuel your anger by staring down at you with a level of apathy that is wholly unnecessary considering he’s the one that wanted your attention.

“G— “

“I asked you why you have that stupid look on your face.” It’s like he was just waiting to interrupt you.

“That’s just my face.” You murmur indignantly and shove more food into your mouth.

He finds that amusing, a half grin forming. “Not your regular stupid face,” he says, laughing when you flip him off, “the one you’ve got now telegraphs a whole lot more. You’re still freaking out.”

You sit up straighter, lips tight and eyes squinting. “Yeah, no shit.” Honestly, how can he expect you to _not_ be freaking out? “A couple of hours ago, you were chastising me for not thinking about myself. So now I am—y’know, I’m lucky I have cash on me to pay for this. If I use my card, it'll show that I’ve visited Vegas during the time that all of this shit is going down.”

G’s expression changes into one of realization, but that does nothing to stop you. No, he egged you on, so he’s getting everything.

“I’m thinking about everything that has happened because I _have_ to, G. I had a life before this, and I need to figure out if I can keep that life or if I have to fucking… _throw_ it away because I’ve gotten caught up in shit that wasn’t supposed to have had anything to do with me.” Gradually you regress into hushed, somewhat frantic whispering; just loud enough for him to hear but not loud enough to draw attention from fellow patrons. 

“I’m trying to be logical about this, but I’ve also got no experience dealing with shit like this. I’ve got to figure out how to get back home without leaving a fucking trail because I _really_ want to keep my old life—I had a good thing going. And—and if I can’t, I’m going to have to pull all my money and close all my accounts, sell my car, locate and burn all identifying paperwork. At this point, I can’t go about this legally, because that’d be suspicious—would anyone believe me? What if Carmella’s connections run far deeper than I know and she’s got people in the system? Also, I don’t know if Carmella is going to try to throw me under the bus, but if she does, she might not have enough evidence to use against me— oh wait, she _will_ because my DNA is all over that goddamn room we were in, she’s got the clothes I wore while in there—this is all a fucking waste, I—.”

“You done?”

G’s callous question jerks you from your downward spiral, both mental and physical because you’re forced to look up at him from your hunched position over your plate, head buried between your clutching hands.

He meets your gaze, unperturbed, almost bored.

Your palms meet the tabletop with more force than you’d intended. Which does draw attention— that and your sudden shift to standing as you lean forward, seeming tempted to physically butt heads with G. “What? Do you find my personal crises _boring,_ asshole?” Comes your hushed snarl, people can pay attention if they want, but they’ll not get all the information. “Cool. That’s fine. Thanks for all the help. You’ve been great, _really,_ but feel free to leave. Oh, and you’re welcome for my help.”

So much for that previously apathetic attitude, because your invitation to get the fuck out of your life seems to have irked him, and you’re glad for it. You’re grateful for his help, but that absolutely does not give him the right to dismiss your problems as if your life hasn’t been falling apart for the past thirty-something hours.

G stands then, meeting your snarl with his own, more vicious one. And you’d be scared—you’d watched him _kill_ people— but you’re just so… goddamn _tired_.

“If you want sympathy from me, you’d better reevaluate how you decide to come at me. You did this to yourself.” he counters whilst mimicking your stance. “And you sure as hell better not think that you can fuckin’ dismiss me.”

The frustration that builds and weaves its way further into your features twists his scowl into a victorious sneer. “No,” he laughs and stands straight, looking down at you, “ _I_ dismiss _you._ ”

And you see red.

Because _the_ _fuck_ he does. How could he have possibly conceived the notion that he would be in any position to—

“…Ma’am?”

Is that all you’re here for? To be used to further someone else’s goal?

“Ma’am, is everything alright?”

When you finally recognize that the voice is directing the question at you, the waiter is sent a vehement scowl that is in no way intended for him, and he recoils enough to make you feel bad about it.

With a sigh, you look away, focusing on the table and endeavor to lessen the enmity in your voice. “No, uh—" you huff quickly, then give your best facsimile of a good-natured smile as you try again, “yeah… yeah, everything is fine. Check, please.”

The eyes of the other patrons burn winding trails along your skin. Are those eyes full of scorn? Or maybe reluctant excitement; this is Vegas, after all, they came here to make money, and for a show.

Yeah, well, fuck them. They aren’t getting one at your expense.

When you sit, it is with ease and poise. And as you shift to pull your phone from your pocket, not a glance is spared for G. He continues to stand, and you hope he looks just as daft as you currently consider him to be, left standing alone amongst a scene cut short by your unwillingness to play further into his hands.

How embarrassing for him, you think drolly, eyes focused solely on the listing of flights leaving from McCarren to JFK.

“Your girl,” he says, blatantly ignoring your irate murmur of " _don’t call her that, we are nowhere near cool right now,"_ in favor of continuing, “doesn’t seem stupid enough to leave behind evidence; not with how messy that turned out.”

While you hate to admit it, he’s right. If she truly does have as much power as she leads you to believe, she’ll just have the room cleaned and either bribe or threaten management. Have the slate wiped. But she… can’t be that powerful, can she?

G’s words are chosen to mollify you, to reassure, but to also backhandedly tell you to shut up and stop freaking out about shit you only have a mild understanding of— that of which derives almost solely from books, television shows, and movies.

“If she gets the cops involved, they’re likely to be crooked and only be used to trap you. You and I, we made a fool out of her. She won’t take that lightly. It’s all personal now.” He takes a moment to pause, voice dipping low enough that it seems he’s almost talking to himself, “her vendetta against me, however…”

By the time G sits, you’ve switched the destination from JFK to LaGuardia. Then from LaGuardia to Newark. Then from McCarren to North Vegas and cycled through the destinations. Once that’s done you breathe in deeply and pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes only closing after you’ve watched the waiter approach with your check and have thanked him sotto voce. And though you loathe the fact that the thought is crossing your mind, even if you decide to dine and dash, you still wouldn’t have enough cash to book a flight or bus without going digital and leaving a trail.

Not with companies so obviously taking advantage of the current… extraterrestrial events.

The inkling to cry crosses your mind for a fleeting moment— but to hell with it because you’re angry and you don’t have time for it. You’ve got to figure this out. At the very _least_ you’ve got to get a ride home. Start there and figure out the next step once you’ve come to it.

So, when you slide from the booth, pull out your wallet and throw enough money on the table to cover the bill, and begrudgingly, the tip, with a tiredly muttered " _have a nice life,"_ you anticipate G’s objection to your leaving. What you don’t expect, is to recognize the petite, bristled woman with a malignant smile splitting her face standing at the entrance. Nor the few patrons that stand and turn fully toward you, nor the ones currently entering behind—

“…God,” You breathe, stunned, “damnit.”

“You know,” she starts, voice clear, clandestine and not at all like she is here to kill, or at the very least, maim you, “you should _really_ be sure to turn your GPS off, sweetie.”

Funny, you don’t remember ever turning it on.

Her statement isn’t one you’re prepared to respond to, so you simply stand and stare, too wary to make any sudden movements, but teetering on the edge of panic.

Okay, so, how do you get out of this?

Run, clearly.

But _how?_ Always outnumbered and outplayed, you’ve no idea what Carmella has up her sleeves beyond extra manpower with supplemented weaponry. And, if you remember correctly, Nevada is an open-carry state, so you don’t suspect many people will react to the warning call of _“gun!”_ Granted, the tourists might, but are you willing to bet on that? And if you did manage to start a riot, who’s to say you wouldn’t be condemning these people to their deaths?

Drama-hungering they may be, but that doesn’t mean they deserve harm.

But… neither do you.

With no immediate idea in mind, you raise your hands at shoulder level, palms displayed in an attempt to seem more innocuous than you already are. It’s an odd sight to the clueless mass around, and an annoying one to Carmella, if the exaggerated roll of her eyes is anything to go by.

“What’re you— put your fuckin’ hands down.” She says under her breath as she stalks forward.

Instinctively you shrink back but stall, remembering that you can’t run, then quickly flit your eyes over to the booth that G occupies, well, _occupied_. The booth having nothing to greet you with except ruddy vinyl seating, dirtied plates, and a guest check underneath money you so desperately need for the coming excursion, whatever it is. Shamefully, the sight of his absence results in your stomach twisting further into a miserably agonizing knot.

Which is… fine.

You don’t need him anyway.

What good is he beyond that… very useful teleportation ability?

This is _fine._

**Really.**

No sooner than you look up, Carmella stands in front of you, scoffing as she slaps your hands down and grasps your wrist. She wastes no time dragging you along behind her while she turns and makes her way out of the restaurant.

You stumble after her, much akin to a petulant child being escorted out of an establishment by an angry parent that is ready to scold. Too lost in thought, you fail to notice the waiter who once again calls after you, seemingly concerned for your wellbeing. It’s wholly unexpected, shaking you from your stupor and you suck in a breath, ready to call back.

But you don’t.

Instead, you simply watch, dejected, as a large, behemoth of a man places a hand on the waiter’s shoulder, halting any objections he may have had. And, while you’re more of the thought that he wasn’t actually going to help you, the sight still feels like a chance jerked away. 

Then the guilt sets in, because that person, should he have had the chance to stall Carmella’s actions, could have been hurt because of you.

Grimace set in place; you allow Carmella to escort you through the restaurant doors. You’d be embarrassed if not for the worry that permeates your being and the gaggle of people— human and monster alike— that follow shortly after.

Right. Why would they all be dressed in suits?

Briefly, you wonder if they were listening to your little freak-out earlier.

Then you realize that's a stupid thing to ponder, because shit, yeah, of course they were listening. Or at the very least, watching.

If this keeps up, you—

Will immediately stop thinking about all that other shit and wince in pain because Carmella just harshly shoved you against a brick wall. You’re lucky your head didn’t bounce back. The rancid smell of piss and garbage intermingling has your nose wrinkling.

Carmella calmly watches as you gather yourself, her hand pressed heavily against your chest.

And you, well, you make a mistake.

“Hey, C,” you drawl, offering up a stupid, timid grin, “so, uh, I wish I could say ‘ _I get it._ ’ Like, I _get_ what happened at my apartment, then the base, the hotel… but you’ve gotta take me way back, “ gradually you begin to lose control of your tone and inflection and your grin turns taught, “y’know, back to the very _moment_ you decided that you wanted to _fuck up my life. **”**_ You hadn’t realized that you were snarling the words until the last few dropped from your lips whilst you thrashed against her hold on your chest, ultimately pushing against and swatting her hand away. “Can you do that? Hm? Can you do that for me, so _I can understand?_ ”

Initially, you’d meant to play it cool, to be smart about the situation.

But… seeing her again just… brought everything to a head. At this moment, you're talking to the woman that you’d once considered your best friend, your chosen sister.

However, it seems at this moment, she doesn’t see herself as either of those things.

And it stings.

Or, maybe that’s just the dig of the pistol’s nozzle into the skin on your forehead.

Carmella presses it hard and heavy against your head until she’s got you back where you started, against the wall. This time your head does touch it.

“You…” she says with a condescending sneer playing on her lips, “you’re always either running away or asking stupid fucking questions. Just _shut up._ "

A small part of you wishes that the panic was still there. Because if it was, you wouldn't continue talking. "How is wanting to understand what happened, stupid?" Pointedly, you ignore her comment on running. You've still some logic left, after all.

Oh, you'd run. You just need to find or make an opening first. At this point, you're of the assumption that if she was going to shoot you, she would have done it by now.

Carmella breathes a frustrated sigh through her nose, scowling as she moves closer, presses the gun harder. "You get one chance," she says with fire in her eyes and poison on her tongue, "where is it?"

"...It?" You stare blankly.

At your baffled response, she grits her teeth, her finger crawling towards the gun’s trigger.

Eyes flitting from hers to her fingers, you scramble. “O-okay, okay, wait, what do you mean by ‘ _it?_ ’ ” When she continues to stare, her words finally click. One chance. And you just wasted that chance by asking a fucking question in turn.

Suddenly, she steps away, face overcome with stoicism as she holds her hand out. Her people are trained well, as she waits no longer than five seconds for the unspoken item— aw, shit, it’s a silencer.

She’s got a _fucking_ silencer in her hand.

Carmella makes a show of attaching it to the front of her pistol as she walks back to you. You know why, and it’s working.

Ah.

There’s panic.

“Carmella, I don’t know what _‘it’_ is! You need to _tell_ me what you want because I didn’t take anything from you,” you’re babbling now, but you see no other options, being surrounded. The people with her now aren’t as big as the one that stopped the waiter, but they’re certainly too big for you to take on. Your agility versus their strength? You’re not that confident, and she’s got monsters on her side, wildcards. “I don’t—I, I didn’t leave with anyth—”

She looks off to the side, and suddenly a big trucker-looking motherfucker grabs your arm and pulls it taught against the wall.

When she finally speaks, your throat constricts, tears well up, and you thrash against the man, which leads another one to help hold you in place.

“Can’t do your job… without your arms, right?”

A rag gets jammed into your mouth as she aims.

The first shot pierces the wall just above your clavicle.

“If you keep flinching, you might make it worse.” Carmella chastises in a petty display of faux annoyance. Then she begins to hum, repeating the same three clipped notes. The first starting low, while the next two gradually ascend. Her gun begins to drift. She taps her foot in time.

The second shot lands just under your armpit.

Panic gives way to hatred then, because you recognize what she’s doing. Toying with taking everything you’ve worked so hard in life for. She knows how important it is, and would have you suffer instead of just taking your life.

Your hatred burns deep, and you show her that by staring her down as she inspects her nails. She looks back at you, takes note of your defiant resolve, and smiles.

“Look at that,” Carmella coos while she approaches you, unable to resist the temptation to rub your nose in the situation, “that’s the look you used to give shitheads that were looking for a fight. Ready to throw down?”

Her eyes flit down to the rag in your mouth and she laughs. “A little outnumbered, don’t you think? Don’t have _me,”_ she says emphatically, gesturing to herself, “to fight your battles for you.”

You remember fighting them _with_ her. You fought _together_. You’d tell her as much if the neanderthal holding you would stop pushing the rag back into your mouth.

“I would have, you know?” Carmella taps the nozzle against your shoulder, almost contemplatively, nonchalantly. “We could have been partners. Could have been like old times— well...” she always has this habit of getting way too close to you, invading your personal space, “not exactly like old times. “

So, you take the chance to headbutt her.

But she anticipates.

As do her men.

Wouldn’t really have worked anyway, considering the few extra inches you’ve got on her, but you weren’t _not_ going to take the chance. Anything to shut her up.

Carmella pulls back easily, smirk wide as the men at your sides apply more pressure. “Glad you remember that.” She laughs. “Glad you still suck at it.”

“Damn, sweetheart.”

All self-satisfied mirth displayed on Carmella’s face disperses in an instant.

And gathers on yours. You’ve become far too familiar with that rasp in about a day’s time.

“She’s right. That was garbage.”

Unable to see him or speak, you simply give an exaggerated snort in response. Yeah, well, you didn’t have many other options beyond just taking whatever she was going to dish out.

Carmella’s frown deepens as she does her best to surreptitiously search the area. “There it is.” She whispers, tilting her head the barest amount.

And the violent quintessence of rage that churns in your gut threatens to bubble up and spew into the rag at the realization that the “it” Carmella has been referring to, is G. She’d just been too egocentric to fucking say that. Even if she didn’t want to say his name, “the monster” would have done just as well. Hell, calling him “the alien” would have even gotten the idea across. She could have used almost _anything_ else, for fuck’s sake.

“Gotta say, was real cute when you tried to appeal to the friend you used to have in her. Stupid, but cute.”

G, for as unreliable as he is, is your only ticket out of this. You just need him to be useful. Which… may or may not happen, taking your previous conversation in to account.

When Carmella’s head tilts up, eyes scaling several feet directly above you, you can only assume that he’s standing on a ledge.

On another note, exactly how long had he been around before making himself known? Obviously long enough to have witnessed your outburst.

What an absolute asshole.

One of your captors moves from you to Carmella, hand dipping just behind his burly back as he too, along with every other person in the alleyway, looks up. As for the other, he adjusts his hold on you so that he’s allowed the ease of holding both of your wrists within one of his massive hands while his other points a gun to your temple.

“Quiet.” He commands when you grunt at his rough handling. As if it was the equivalent of the full-blown rant you actually want to go on.

 _Fuck you, pal._ You think bitterly, side-eyeing him whilst furtively working to spit the rag out of your mouth. What? Is your grunt going to send everything into chaos? Disrupt Carmella’s plans to ruin your life even further? Is it going to free you from his grasp and help you savagely cram your foot against his genitals?

Fuck this guy.

Fuck Carmella.

Fuck everyone.

Just— _fuck._

In the interim of your scorn fueled internal monologue, G decides to taunt Carmella further.

"Hey, I get it. She let ‘ya down and you’re gonna fuck her up— make a point," he says with a chuckle, then has the audacity to use that teleport ability to land him in the midst of Carmella and her crew, directly in front of you, “least, that’s what you want her to think. Whatever. Backstory is probably real boring and I really don’t give a fuck how it started or how it ends."

With his back to you, you can’t see it directly but you can tell that he’s got that insufferable smirk planted on his face by the way its edges creep along the side of his face at your indignant grumble of a rebuttal.

“Thing is,” G’s hands burrow into the pockets of his ruddy coat with the ease of someone wholly unphased by the vast amount of people holding him at gunpoint, “I’m not quite done with her yet and you’re getting in my way. So, fuck off.”

Now, one would think that he’s all talk if they hadn’t experienced G’s abilities before. Hell, you have, and part of you still thinks he’s all talk.

So, when this… stifling pressure blossoms from seemingly nothing, gripping onto your throat and limbs and generally making you feel that both breathing and standing require far too much effort, you fear —for a fleeting moment—that maybe it’s Carmella’s doing. That maybe you’ve underestimated her more than you’d thought and that she somehow gained control of some weird, abstract device via whatever contacts she may have.

But that’d be… silly.

Or… not?

It doesn’t seem silly to the brute that was once holding you against the wall, yet now seems to struggle with keeping himself in place, let alone upright. Oh, he does his best to hide the inner turmoil that slips into his features, like the wrinkles on his forehead and how taught the tendons in his neck become, but he doesn’t do so well enough.

He doesn’t, and neither does the rest of Carmella’s entourage. 

Most expressions within the group match his, with a few oddities here and there, those few being mainly monsters. While their expressions seem less burdened and standing seeming less of a chore, as a whole, they don’t seem any less bothered by the aura as anyone else. Moreover, they stare intently at the person that surprises you the most, trying their damndest to stand their ground against him.

For however unperturbed G was before, that state has intensified by an alarming amount and has even had a distinct smugness added to it as he so clearly takes enjoyment from the collective discomfort.

It clicks, then. You'd been curious before now, but… you really wonder who it is exactly that you have been hanging around.

Carmella, while looking just as burdened as everyone else, gives a shaky laugh, meeting G’s wide smile with her own. Painted hi-gloss lips pull into a self-satisfied leer purposefully. “Oh, is this what we do now? Stand around and allow merchandise to mouth off and make demands?”

Two questions that hold a tremendous amount of clout, it seems as, surprisingly, G isn’t the one to strike first. 

The pressure disappears at once and it’s a type of mandragora monster that takes the lead, slinging twisted vines G’s way as a few others among Carmella’s crew, who are thankfully not short-sighted enough to start shooting within close-quarters, rush forward.

As such, instead of receiving a bullet to the gut, you get a goddamn lashing across it because G just _had_ to stand directly in front of you and then _dodge_.

Your shrieked profanities are somewhat muffled by the damp cloth, lost to most but you and your captor who jerks violently at the sight as if he was the one assaulted, all the while still mashing his gun into your temple. Tear filled gaze snapping over to him, you finally manage to spit the rag out. “You want to stop trying to fuse that gun into my head, you fucking troglodyte, jesus.”

He yanks you harshly along with him as he chooses to move, eyes focused on Carmella but his nasty murmur of _“you’re lucky it’s just the nozzle and not a bullet…stupid bitch,”_ is clearly a response to your fussy question. “Ma’am?” he asks then, all baritone and barely concealed uncertainty.

Carmella watches G deftly teleport around her people. He clearly isn’t taking the situation seriously; that sharp-toothed smile hasn’t dropped once since the scuffle began, moreover he’s literally taking them down with that same weird gravity ability he’s used a day prior. The cronies meet the rocky ground like concrete sacks at the mere gesture of G’s hand and irritable wrinkles overtake her youthful face.

If only you could take the time to revel in her irritation.

Instead of suffering through your own.

“Car.” The vainglorious mistress commands.

And her pitiful dog follows without thought, continuing to drag you along when you attempt to fight and hauling you when you attempt to become dead weight. In doing the latter, he wraps his massive, meaty arm around your middle, which, in turn, prompts you to let out an unholy growling yowl as he mashes said arm against your blooming welt.

Thankfully, that catches G’s attention.

As well as any bystander that wasn’t paying attention before.

Pulling any person that was watching out of morbid curiosity further in.

G appears in front of you, straight, almost regal, short just a few inches to the man, yet no less imposing, hands clasped behind his back as he snickers at your being within the clutches of the brute. “Need a hand?” He asks casually while a multitude of skeletal hands appear out of thin air and rotate around his being like some macabre halo. Adding to the odd display is the fact that they all lack palms, or rather, each one has a hole there instead.

Understandably taken aback, you don’t get a chance to answer quickly enough before he blinks back out of existence. Instead, you get to shrink into yourself as a bullet streaks past your head.

Carmella marches forward, poised, taking G’s place and turning back toward the frenzied alley with her pistol at the ready.

“Maybe a little more than “a hand,” if you feel so inclined.” You manage to spit out amongst your grunts and growls whilst struggling viciously within the man’s arms. The very same one who seems to be considering his life choices at G’s arrogant display of ability and devil may care attitude.

When G pops back into view, whatever lackadaisical energy he was carrying moments ago is quickly overcome by the more malicious one he likes to keep… _somewhat_ under wraps. It displays openly in the curl of his snarling smile and bright glow of his eye-light as, at once, four of those ghastly hands come into existence and two of them take hold of your captor. One upon the wrist of his armed hand, and another just around his chin, prying his mouth open just so. Open enough for the skeletal hand to maneuver your captor’s hand and situate the pistol, once pointed at your head, into its owner’s mouth and promptly pull the trigger. Effectively, disgustingly, sending a nice splattering of the man your way.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly where G is at any given moment, but you know for certain that he isn’t close enough to allow the level of clarity allotted when you hear him chuckle and say "just can’t say ‘no’ to you, sweets,” as if he’s leaning over on a fucking couch and whispering—practically _purring_ it to you. Add to that those extra two hands being surprisingly gentle when they take hold and hastily lift you high above the raucous crowd and onto the nearest rooftop; you’ve got a lot of emotions to work through in a very short amount of time.

Ultimately, you decide on lifting your grimy shirt and examining the wound across your stomach with a level of repugnance new to you. Aching and looking like the canvas of some demented artist’s project, you give a heavy sigh and take a moment of reprieve whilst ineffectively wiping viscera and drying blood from your face with parts of your shirt that aren’t covered.

Gradually, your wiping becomes harder.

What now? With G doing… whatever he’s doing to those people down there, you’re safer than you were minutes ago, but you’ve no idea where to go from here. You don’t know the deal with Carmella and whatever game she’s playing, but she sure as shit is adamant that you stay in it.

Almost frantic, you rub your filthy hand along your face, just trying to—

So, you don’t know the rules. Don’t know how to play these types of games at all. Don’t know why the game is even happening—how it started, and yet here you are, stuck in the middle of it.

To get this shit off, just—

Shuttering aggressively, you scramble to remove your shirt, proceeding to turn it inside out and rub it vigorously against your face and arms. You do so harshly, too quickly, and it hurts but so what because you can still feel the phantom of it being there and it’s disgusting and you shouldn’t even be here, you should be at home, should be reading and practicing with the only residue residing on your form being your own sweat. Not someone else’s. Not here, amidst death and danger and betrayal. You didn’t pick this life for yourself. So why the hell is this the type of shit being constantly thrown your way?

Well, that’s… a stupid question to ask yourself.

Because you _know_ why.

You just refuse to accept the answer.

Would rather run in circles.

It takes a moment for the realization that you’re crying to dawn on you, thinking the wetness on your shirt to be from that man, so when that fact hits you, you’re only mildly surprised and only rein in it enough to allow for proper thought.

You’re allowed to fucking cry.

Of course, now you’ve got the pain of a headache and a stuffy nose added to everything else. But what are a few more problems? At least these are guaranteed to go away eventually. “This shit… has got to stop.”

With a few deep breaths and a lot of willpower, you stand and amble to the edge of the rooftop, greeted by the view of an alleyway littered with fallen adversaries, some hanging nicely from pikes while others struggle against G’s magic.

The monster himself seems to be stewing in ferocious glee at the group’s folly, his… connected hands still pocket clad while the anomalous phantom hands essentially do all the dirty work. Slamming, throwing, blocking, it isn’t long before the goons stop approaching him for fear of those devastating claws.

“…G.” You call around the mucous invading your throat and hoping that he can hear you because you really don’t want to yell.

The only indication that he’s heard you is a slight tilt of his head in your general direction. Then you blink and he’s a hair’s breadth away, just behind you, holding a scowl so deep you’re led to believe that you’re the one that did wrong by him somehow.

“Why are you _crying?_ ” It’s a question, but the way he says it is absolutely accusatory. Like he’s disgusted by the display.

So, he can send a pike through a man’s chest cavity and force a man to aim for his own head, but the sight of your tearful face is what makes him uncomfortable?

“Fuck you.” You respond with all the ire you can muster.

“Not if you’re goin’ to cry.” G huffs, eye shifting down to your chest. “Guess it doesn’t take much. Cute bra.”

With a roll of your eyes, you stalk over to him and grasp his sleeve. “Yeah, thanks, it cost way too much and now it’s kind of ruined.” Offhandedly, you move to rub your shirt against the minor bloodstains on said bra. “We’ll see how vast my blood removal knowledge is. Take me down there.”

He’s quick to jerk his arm away from you. “You’ll just end up in the way.”

“Yeah, I gathered as much when you put me up here. But I need Carmella to understand something.” You continue reaching for him and he continues to stay just far enough away. Thus, you follow. “You already took most of her people down, so it shouldn’t be too dangerous. You can make weapons, right?” You’ve tracked him to the middle of the roof, so instead of following further, you hold your hand out. “Give me one.”

His frown is replaced by a smile then, albeit derisive. “What can _you_ do?”

When you march forward, he doesn’t retreat, so you meet him, not quite chest to chest but close enough to get the point across, and glare up at him. “Enough.”

G’s smile turns into more of a smirk as it damn near splits his face. He doesn’t believe you, that much is clear, but he’s curious.

And that’s all you need.

G shifts to run his gloved hand along the small of your back then pushes you further into him, the sensation of his ability overcomes you, but only for an instant. Once on the ground, G forms an honest to goodness bone, akin to a femur, in his hand with a flurry of red magic and promptly shoves it into your own.

“Let’s see what you got, sweets.” He laughs brusquely, turning to what’s left of Carmella’s people and sauntering forward with a sharp-toothed smile and an unspoken promise.

And you, you turn towards a thankfully unguarded Carmella who, true to form, decides that now is the time to head out, personal driver or no. Guess her driver is one of the people on the ground.

She isn’t far, but you take a running start anyway, hands twisting tightly around the length of the bone as you stop just short of the driver’s car door and swing with all you have.

The window shatters, exploding out and away but having the effect you wanted because Carmella flinches back further into the car seat. “Where’re ‘ya goin’, C?” You sing whilst grabbing her arm and yanking her back out. “Oh, wait, too many questions, ha, right.”

She resists, holding strong onto the steering wheel and still not fully outside of the vehicle, so you brace a foot against the side of it, pulling harder until her sweaty palms slip free and the both of you go tumbling back.

Not exactly a smart move, because the rogue parcels of glass that dig into your back are anything but comfortable, but you’re far too focused on other issues right now. Carmella stands before you do.

“Going shirtless for the freak, huh? Is that all it takes to get it to do what you want?” She chuckles whilst stalking forward and slamming a foot down on your torso, directly on your wound.

The wail that slips through your clenched teeth bids her sneer down at you, but you don’t allow her to take advantage for much longer, hand scrambling for the bone and swinging it at her knee once it’s within your clutches. It lands hard enough to get her off but not enough to take her down, so you clamber to your knees and use both hands to swing again. “Too many questions!”

She tumbles with a curse, her heels not nearly stable enough to keep her up, and when she’s down, you’re quick to crawl over and raise your weapon high above your head, letting it come crashing down across her waist before she has the chance to curl in defense.

The air successfully knocked out of her lungs, she’s virtually helpless as you move to straddle her and press the length of the bone against her trachea. “Listen to me,” you start, only to press down harder when she attempts to speak, “I said fucking _listen_ , Christ, you can’t even breathe and you’re still trying to mouth off.”

Carmella attempts to alleviate the pressure by grasping the bone and pressing back. Normally she’s stronger than you, so you’ve no doubt that she would be able to fight you off if not for your previous blow. You put more of your weight on the bone. Time is of the essence.

“You’re going to go the hell back wherever the fuck it is you came from, and leave me alone. I don’t know what your problem is, and I don’t give a fuck. You were too much back then, and you’re too much now. As of this moment, you’re nothing to me.” The pressure on her end strengthens for a moment before she moves a hand down to her waist, struggling to get it behind her. You apply as much pressure as you can. “If you decide to come after me, know that I’m going to fight back. Even if it means I have to stoop as low as you. You’re not taking me down.”

Carmella simply glares up at you, teary-eyed and puffy-faced, hand finally making its way behind her and coming back with her pistol. She moves to point it at you, per usual, so you call out: “G, a hand, please.”

He’s behind you in an instant, towering form casting a shadow over you and Carmella.

“And, uh, I don’t know what you’ve got against G, but it would be in your best interest if you left him alone too.” You add, watching one of those phantom hands grip Carmella’s wrist hard enough that she drops her gun.

The screeching of tires draws your attention away from her towards the alley entry. It isn’t all that surprising that three black SUVs pull up. It is frustrating, however. Looking back down at Carmella, her eyes scream defiance, and you scoff whilst reaching and snatching up her gun just as G grasps your shoulder and teleports.

\---

When next you find yourself, you’re hobbling through a chain drugstore, catching looks from its employees, shoving pain medication and cold compresses into G’s arms, and struggling to find the ointment you need.

Then it is with your head down and turned away as you give the cashier the last of your tangible money and quickly thank them while leaving. “Should’ve helped lighten a couple of those guy’s wallets while I was there.” A pathetic drone while rummaging through the bag.

“Wait,” G says between derisive laughter, as he follows after you, “I think you can be _more_ suspicious.”

“Shut up!” You seethe, stalking a ways away to a secluded area and cracking open a bottle of peroxide. “Who knows what they thought—”

“Could have been a number of things, really…” G interrupts with a snicker.

“But,” you resume emphatically, “I didn’t want them seeing my face too well. And if we stay too close to the place, they’re likely to call the cops—just help me out so we can bail.” Then you shove the bottle into his vacant hands and turn your back to him, quick to unclasp your bra and hold the cups in place.

“Any glass?”

He, of course, doesn’t respond, so you decide: to hell with it. For now, you’ll sling some peroxide over it and inspect it when you find a mirror, or someone useful.

Bottle in hand, cap popped open, you move to tip it haphazardly over your shoulder, only to have your wrist restrained by a gloved hand.

“Stop moving.” G mutters, far closer than he had been mere seconds ago.

The dude hadn’t made a sound when he’d approached, so of course you’re startled into pulling away instinctively.

And you poise your mouth to tell him just that, only for your voice to get stuck in your throat at the feeling of another gloved hand softly running along your side, steadying you. He’s somewhat hunched over your back when you chance a glance over your shoulder, stone-faced and silent, studying.

Involuntarily you jerk again, wincing at the removal of shards and extra movement against your back, having momentarily forgotten his proclivity for multiple hands, and drawing a huff from him in response.

“…Sorry,” you end up whispering.

Which is enough, it seems, to placate his budding frustration. He then proceeds to remove the peroxide bottle from your hand and douse your back with it, waiting only a moment when you suck air through your teeth and tense, before doing it again.

Two of his extra hands appear in front of you and swiftly take the ointment and adhesive gauze.

Now is as good a time as any to chance proper speech.

“So…uh…” Off to a brilliant start. “Do you have a plan? A-about what you’re going to do now, I mean.”

With the question thrown out there, you simply wait.

No foolishly extended offers or unnecessary small talk. This is a discussion that needs to be had before the two of you continue together. _If_ the two of you continue together.

Time passes in silence, and you’re sure that this is finally where you and he part ways.

“Monster subject research facilities.” He steps away, those extra hands hovering in front of you, ready to return your recently bought products.

You don’t take them right away, choosing instead to readjust and lock your bra into place, then focus on the wound across your front. “What about them?”

G holds off on responding immediately, orbits squinting the barest amount while he stares at nothing in particular. “Where are they?” His eye light snaps over to you at once.

His question holds more aggressive undertones than you’re ready for and you start. The peroxide is unceremoniously, unintentionally yanked from the offering hand because of it. “Uh…easiest one for you to get to would be in D.C,” you mumble whilst attending to your stomach, “or you could try to sneak on a cruise-liner headed for Ebott via L.A, but those are far and few between. There’s one in… Switzerland, I think. None of them are open to visitors.”

Falling quiet, you watch as he becomes lost in thought.

After being released from captivity, where experiments were most assuredly conducted—likely on him— what interest could he have in MSR? You’ve no idea what went or goes on at Area 51, but you’ve got an imagination. His situation didn’t look the greatest when you found him, it certainly wasn’t ethical. If you were in his shoes, the last thing you would want to do is visit any place that studies subjects remotely close to—

“…Why?” You hope the skepticism doesn’t show on your face. But know that it can be heard in your tone. You focus purposefully on wrapping the adhesive gauze around your middle, head low.

If he’s giving you a look, you can’t see it.

Surprisingly, he answers. “Need to pay a friend a visit.”

He says like the statement isn’t ominous as fuck; ripped straight from some action film.

“So, if D.C is the easiest to get to, guess I’ll be sticking with you for a little longer, sweetheart.” When you look back up at him, G proceeds to give you the most unnerving smirk you’ve received from him in a while.

Or is it normal? You really can’t decide right now.

“Oh.” You all but squeak. “ _Cool_.”

Oh… boy.

\---

“I’ve… gotta find a shirt. I can’t do this anymore.”

“You look fine.”

“Thank you,” you give a huff of a laugh, but side-eye G nonetheless, “and while, yes, I could definitely get away with walking around Vegas in a bra, I’d rather not. I need to _not_ draw attention _._ This situation isn’t helping.” Pausing, you appraise him thoughtfully. “You could just let me borrow your coat. It’s kind of your fault that I’m shirtless anyway.”

G hums dully at your accusation. “Doll, if it was my fault, you’d be a whole lot more than shirtless.” He stops to yawn wide, never once looking your way whilst he pulls a hand from his coat pockets and flippantly gestures to the shirt within your clutches. “You’re still carrying that shirt around—just put it back on.”

“And walk around in a shirt covered with blood?” You whisper harshly after sidestepping a pedestrian. “Honestly, it’s a little more than blood—I’m still carrying it because it links me back to that mess. Y’know, the one _you_ made.”

His eye light rolls around his socket. “Saved your life again, and you’re worried about the _mess I made._ Good to know you’ve got your priorities straight.”

Nodding aggressively, you suck in a deep breath place a hand on your forehead. “Right, okay. Thank you,” you enunciate thickly, with obvious purpose, “really. It’s not that I’m ungrateful— cause I’m not. But almost all of big brother is on high alert because of the semi-successful raid. And bigger brother is most definitely worried about _you_ being on the loose. You can’t just… leave blood trails behind.”

G stops walking and focuses on you and your hushed lecturing when you grab his sleeve, expression unreadable.

“Look,” you sigh, releasing his sleeve while holding your free palm out in front of you as if you’ve slighted him, “all I’m saying is: if you don’t want to get caught again, tone it down.”

Gloved hands slide along the inside of your wrists before capturing them with ease and G spares you a lazy chuckle at your perplexed, mildly disgruntled expression. He then begins applying the barest amount of force while taking small, calculated steps forward.

His immediate message is clear enough and you take countered steps back in turn, stumbling slightly as your heels catch the wall, just narrowly avoiding letting your back connect with it. “What’re you…”

Now in a more shaded area, G opts to stand immobile, hunched over you with his eye light turned down and to the side. It’s… odd and slightly intimidating, prompting a spike in your scrutiny.

About a minute passes without either of you speaking.

You don’t bother trying to until his shoulders sag. “G…”

G ceases his crowding and releases his hold on you, overall temperament shifting back into nonchalance.

“What the hell was that?” Confusion sticks pretty strongly to your being.

He has the audacity to sigh at your question. “Noth—”

“Ha! No,” you inject quickly, hand moving to point a finger at him accusatorily, “no, no—that was _not_ nothing _._ That was _definitely_ s _omething_.”

The dude has approximately two expressions: viciously jubilant, and bored. “It was…nothing.” He dons the latter as he summons extra hands to retrieve the shirt and bottle you’d abruptly dropped. “Beyond a ploy to get you to focus.”

Eyes squinting and finger still poised, your lips purse indignantly as you are just raring to find some way to tear into this guy.

“I’m assuming that you’ve figured out how to get home.” He stares down at you with his hands behind his back, while the extra set moves to offer your things. “Pedantically.”

Taken somewhat aback, you give an apathetic shrug and look off to the side. “…Fair to middling.”

“Fair to middling _.”_ He repeats acerbically.

“Yes _,”_ you counter emphatically, “fair to middling. What’re you, my dad?”

G grins and his brows raise. You wince, realizing your mistake immediately.

“Alright.” You say with a sigh and hold your palm out again in order to keep him from commenting. “If we can get to L.A, I can safely use my card. At that point, we’ll, well, _I’ll_ be set. And you can see if anything is headed to Ebott.”

His posture goes lax and he chooses to switch to default stance number two as he speaks, his hands moving deep into his coat pockets. Then he hums, seeming lost in thought.

So you continue on, regardless of whether he’s still giving his attention or not. “Truthfully, we both need new clothes if we’re going to blend in.” Overly judgmental, you give him a once-over. “A guy in a trench coat is always suspicious. And that suspicion doubles with this heat.”

“Got somethin’ in mind?” G asks, a lazy smile stretched over his face. Huh. So he was paying attention.

The more that you think about it, you’re going to need a whole lot more than clothes. With a cursory nod, you return his smile. “Let’s head back to the strip.”

\---

With over two-hundred stores in one building, Fashion Show was the clear destination for ease and variety. The perfect place to change the entirety of both of your wardrobes into something that helps suppress your presence. You more so than his, given… the way he looks— trench coat or not.

While you do feel bad asking G to use his ability so frequently, you’re sure that he understands how necessary it is.

That doesn’t stop the exertion from showing in his features though.

Sweat dots his skull, the scarlet bags under his eyes look that much deeper, and he certainly doesn’t seem as alert as usual.

In between adjusting your wig and snapback and sorting rations, you chance a glance at your unlikely companion. “G.” You call, unsure if he can hear you over the roar of car engines and occasional bass boosted radio. “Hey, G.”

Your calls barely rouse him, as his eyes remain closed and he continues to sit, leaning heavily against the underpass wall with one long jean-clad leg drawn up, his arm thrown over it.

He finally grunts when you shove a large water bottle in your backpack and set it aside in favor of scooting closer to him. A single socket lifting just the barest amount, you’re met with that familiar, bleary scarlet light focusing on you expectantly.

With his attention secured, you take a quick breath and lock your gaze with his. “You alright?”

His silence and raised brow are enough to have your shoulders sagging. How are the two of you not passed this by now?

“Because you look like shit.” Retaliation against his judgmental gaze. “I know that magic exertion is a thing. Let’s get somewhere a little safer so we can chill a bit before we get started.”

Standing, you sling your backpack onto your shoulders before grabbing his hand in an attempt to help him stand. “Come on.” At the very least, sitting in a mall or lobby will help both of you cool down and mentally prepare. “We can head to The Grand Canal Shoppes or Caesars Palace.”

G makes no fuss, allowing you to pull him up and throw his arm around your shoulder in a very reminiscent fashion –though he doesn’t lean quite as heavily on you. He only stalls to grab his own backpack before you lead the way.

“You seem to enjoy being my crutch,” G comments offhand with a breathy chuckle.

“Yes, well,” you hum while sliding your hand around as much of his back as you can in support, “I’ve studied my whole life for this job, please rate my performance accordingly.”

During your spree in Fashion Show, he’d ditched the trench in favor of a jacket, after minor prodding. A simple black garb, lightly padded and versatile with fur lining the hood. You’ve only noticed now how nice it is as the downy fur ghosts along the edge of your ear when it flops over, and the outer material rubbing against your neck is only slightly coarse, but not enough to be offensive. Well, now you hate not having grabbed one for yourself. Not that your long, oversized hoody is anything to turn a nose up at.

He adjusts the backpack onto his free shoulder and grins just a bit. “Fair to middling.”

“Pfft.” You smile while lightly hip-checking him. “Shut up.”

Ultimately, The Grand Canal Shoppes were closer, thus chosen. The two of you sit in relative silence aside from the constant murmur of the crowd, televisions with advertisements, and singing gondola rowers. While G partakes in a monster snack that helps boost the recovery of magic, you finish shoving a protein bar into your mouth before pulling a map from your backpack and scooting closer to him.

“Okay. L.A is about two-hundred-seventy miles from here, give or take, if we follow the I-15 south.” You cast him a cursory glance when he leans closer to look, then run a finger along the freeway. “I’ve never hitchhiked before so I’ll be playing this by ear. And I’m going to assume, given your previous arrangement, that you haven’t either.”

G grunts as he tosses his trash into a nearby bin before throwing his ankle over his knee and fixing you with a look. “Damn, you sure know a lot about me.” He comments blandly. “I bet you can recite my whole life story, baseless assumptions notwithstanding.”

Head turning upward, your eyes fix on the artificial sky painted on the ceiling as you groan long and low. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Well,” he huffs but continues to speak in a monotone, “aren’t you just rude as fuck. I—”

You burst into an abrupt fit of laughter at that, having worked retail in your younger years long enough to know where this upper-middle-class suburban mom bullshit rant is going. “Alright, alright, alright. Point taken.” You admit through giggles. “If you have any insight to offer, please do.”

G’s wide smile beams down at you. “Nah, I got nothin’.”

“Oh my— you’re the worst.”

 ** _“After starting as an internet joke, the event— dubbed “Alientstock” by some, ended up gaining global attention.”_ **A news castor reports from a nearby television. **_“With twenty-five vendors and a sound stage, the count of a few hundred “true believers,” quickly turned dangerous when an estimated ninety-three thousand people showed in vans and RVs.”_**

“Anyway _,_ I don’t think hitchhiking at night is the smartest.” You say while trying to tear your eyes away from the television. “But the heat won’t be as bad and, honestly, you’re about the scariest being I can think of going bump in the night, so I’m not too worried about Nevada’s fauna getting frisky.”

**_“And although many stated that they “come in peace.” There were also many that didn’t. Reporter Tracy Stevens there now with all the latest. How are things, Tracy?”_ **

G’s breathy rumble of laughter gives way to his enjoyment of your statement.

Eyes rolling, you shake your head in a fervent facsimile of disappointment, doing your best to stifle the upward quirk of your lips.

**_“—sands of alien hunters gathered in the remote Nevada desert near the Government Facility known as “Area 51” to, quote: storm the military base. And, unfortunately, succeeded in partially doing just that, with many of them hopping fencing fitted with barbed wire—”_ **

When G’s arm slides around your shoulders again, you’re only slightly startled; being entirely too focused on the news. Then he pulls you over to him in an almost overly familiar half-embrace. Maybe it’s because the news has abruptly spiked your anxiety, maybe it’s because you’ve kind of gotten more used to him than you thought, but you let him. Even go as far as slumping in his hold when he somehow leans closer and breathes against your ear.

“You scared of me, Doll?” His glib manner gives you half a mind to scoff. But then. “Have I ever tried to hurt you?”

Then he grins. And your brows knit.

Since the day you met him, it seems like he’s done way more than necessary to protect you. He sure as shit had no problem threatening to hurt others, though. Or following through with those threats. Admittedly, he has no reason to hurt you. You’ve never tried to hurt him in any way. Fought against Carmella when she tried to ensnare him. And have now said that you’ll help get him to his next destination. Hurting you wouldn’t benefit him at all.

Not in your mind, anyway.

But, ha, what do you know?

You thought Carmella’s insistence to visit Vegas was for a girl’s night out. A night to live it up together and make up for lost time.

Never thought that she’d pull a gun on you.

_“ **Countless arrested. Rachel, Nevada has been—"**_

“No.” With a sigh, you pull away, moving to fish through your backpack again. “But you have time.” Once you’ve obtained your phone, you flip it over and struggle momentarily to open the back of it, swiftly removing the SIM card. “Already wiped it. Just need to get rid of this bad boy.”

With that, you lean forward, moving to squat down and pull your flashlight from the pack. The card is haphazardly tossed to the tiled floor before you grasp the butt of the flashlight and slam it down onto the card once, twice, it finally developing multiple cracks with the third. It’s easy to fold then, shattered pieces of it flaking off as you work it.

“Sunset is in a couple of hours,” you comment offhand, using the sleeves and front of your hoody to remove your prints as best you can before tossing the phone parts and split card into the canal, “Ready?”

\---

This is… the most peaceful your life has been in the last thirty-something hours, you think. Walking through the outskirts of Las Vegas during sundown, in genial silence with a guy that has effectively become your bodyguard. One that is inarguably questionable, but one that you need nonetheless.

Within Los Angeles lies your alibi, you’ve just got to make it there. With him around, your chances are exponentially higher. And if that thought isn’t frustrating enough, you’re almost certain that your situation would be infinitely more distressing than it is if not for your continued reliance on him.

You send the crepuscular sky a weak, unjust scowl and huff.

Just make it to L.A.

“It’s time.” Slowly, you come to a halt and pull your backpack off, rummaging through it until you pull out a pair of leather gloves. “Make yourself scarce.”

G throws a grin over his shoulder at you from a few paces ahead, brow lifting. “What, you don’t think I’m pretty enough to get picked up?”

“Hey, _someone’s_ crazy enough to want to pick you up and take that chance.” Shrugging, you shove the gloves into your back pocket. Hell, anyone at that congregation last night would pick G up as there is no reason he wouldn’t pass for an extraterrestrial at face value, given the possibilities that have been literally drawn up. “But they’ll more than likely be prepared to deal with someone like you. If they’re really looking for your type—”

“ _My type?_ ” He parrots while watching you unzip your hoodie and tie it around your waist.

“Y’know,” you say, face scrunching while you wave a hand about flippantly, “Tall, dark, and scary lookin’.”

“You keep layin’ the flattery on that thick, doll, and I’ll be in your bed in no time.”

Shaking your head and slinging your backpack back on, you do your best to hide your grin while adjusting its and your tank top straps to sit comfortably around each other. “We need someone easy, and the only people I can think of that might be looking for you— you’ll have to excuse me for thinking they’ll be anything but easy.” Everything set, you begin walking backward along the road, arm held out and thumb up. “So, get lost, you weirdo. It’s a Friday night and we’re leaving Vegas; this is already hard enough. I’ll give some kind of signal when I’ve got one. “

G turns fully toward you then, trekking over with an insufferable grin and appraising stare. “Alright, sweets,” he says just as he stops a step behind you, gloved hand moving to lie heavily on your shoulder for the barest moment when he leans in close, “since you seem to be full of surprises lately.”

He pulls away and continues walking, leaving you to send him a frown over your shoulder.

“And I think I’m starting to like seeing you work.”

\---

The sun has fallen behind mountains when a car has finally decided to stop for you, the middle-aged driver eyeing you under a stray streetlight.

You bend down further than necessary to meet his eye, he’s in a sport’s car— a two-seater. Alone. “Leave with a prize?”

Predictably, he seems to have trouble dividing his attention between your eyes, and cleavage. “No, but I’m about to, sweetheart.”

Your answer is bashful laughter and a hand moving up to play with your wig.

He grins and lifts a finger from the steering wheel. “Trunk’s popped, door’s unlocked.”

“My friend,” you start, quick to continue as you watch his smile begin to drop, “she—”

That grin picks back up, and he nods a little, trying to cover it with a roll of his shoulders.

“She had to pee— she’s a little shy. Um, I know it’ll be a little cramped, but we should both be able to fit— if that’s alright with you?”

His free hand moves to pat the seat next to him, almost excitedly. “The more the merrier.”

“Thank you so much.” You all but coo, then turn to reach for your backpack and rapidly flash your light towards the darkness. “Georgina, hurry up!”

When you turn back toward the driver and dip low again, he’s turned back toward the road, fingers slowly running along the steering wheel. You run a hand along your backside and grasp the gloves. Slipping them on as surreptitiously as possible, you smile. “I’m Stacy, by the way. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Tony. Pleasure is all mine.” He says while returning your smile. His eyes roll up to check the rear-view mirror obscured by the trunk door until you lower it down to lock securely.

Passenger’s door opening, he turns his attention towards it.

The entirety of the car rocks when Tony jerks back at the sight of G sitting in his passenger’s seat.

“Hello, Tony,” G croons in all his baritone glory, wide toothy grin set in place as you climb in after him and situate yourself comfortably in his lap. “I’m Georgina.”

Quick to close the door, you pitch your voice for gratitude and place a hand on Tony’s thigh whilst leaning forward. “Thank you so much, Tony.”

Tony’s eyes flit between you, G, and your hand many times.

It’s either your charm or Tony’s strong desire to take advantage of you that has him offering a hesitant smile and small nod while he puts the car into drive and merges into traffic.

When you pull your hand away, and when Tony isn’t looking, you lightly jab your elbow into whatever park of G you can reach, because he didn’t have to come off as creepy as he did, regardless of how funny it was.

G simply chuckles, orbits slipping shut as he leans further back into the seat. He then situates his own elbow against the window seal and rests his head against his fist, feigning sleep. With a massive, uncanny smile set in place.

“Where’re ‘ya headed?” Tony asks after a moment and shifts to turn the radio down to a murmur.

“Oh, ha, Hollywood.” You would have never thought that sitting in G’s lap would be comfortable. And it… kind of isn’t, but you mostly attribute that to the tight quarters and struggle to find the correct position that allows you to lean back without cringing in pain. “Couldn’t stay a Silverton mermaid and Venetian Jester forever, y’know?”

G doesn’t seem to appreciate your constant adjusting, a low grumble transferring through him and into you as his free hand surreptitiously crawls along your upper thigh, proceeding to open wide enough to grasp a majority of it and squeeze.

You, however, are in no way covert when you jump slightly, your own hand shooting down to grasp his and pry it off. “Wha-what about you, Tony? Where’s, uh…uh—”

It is at this point that G decides that your slight distress is just _hilarious_ , as his chest proceeds to shake with barely concealed laughter, the fist holding his head up opening to cover his mouth.

Tony is… rightfully confused by the sudden change in atmosphere and sends you an inquiring glance. “…Victorville— uh, she alright?”

Quickly, you lean to shield Tony’s view of G, nervous laughter back. “Oh, yeah, she’s— y’know, she’s not quite used to the dry air here; coughing fits.”

Focusing once again more on the road than you, Tony hums in affirmation and mumbles something along the lines of _“foreigner”_ that you don’t quite catch because G is too busy leaning forward and laughing into the crook of your neck.

“Hollywood,” Tony says in thought as you adamantly ignore G, “I think you’d look good in front of a camera.” He continues, smiling small as if the statement is a compliment.

It takes a lot to not visibly recoil or let the discomfort bleed into your voice. “…Thanks.”

There is a drawn-out silence that follows after that, with your lack of interest in continuing the conversation on the subject, and G having shifted back into his previous position, now done laughing at your expense and feigning sleep.

Well, your hope is that he’s faking. He’s not foolish enough to sleep during a situation such as this, surely.

“Where did you two meet?” Tony chimes in again, apparently having had enough of just radio chatter.

Eyes trained on the shifting night shrouded landscape, you’re poised to answer, ready to throw out some believable, yet wholly bogus answer to save face.

But G decides that he’d be best to answer this particular question.

“In a basement.” He says with enough complacency to send you reeling.

You hunch forward wordlessly with sagging shoulders as you place a hand over your eyes.

Per the norm, G takes great enjoyment from your suffering. “At a party. She found me in a pretty tough situation— all tied up— and helped me out.”

Under Tony’s scrutinization, it’s hard to properly admonish G. Not that a scolding would make much difference. It’s quite clear he’s doing this just to nettle you; receiving favorable results in return.

“You… frequent basements, Stacy?” Tony asks with a lilt in his voice that you find particularly irritating.

Your heaved sigh turns into a groan about halfway through its duration. “Not if I can help it, Tony.” When you lean back, you do so only with regards toward your injuries, ending up nestled further into G who continues to mind your shifting but keep his hands to himself.

Tony decides to press. “Was it not what you expected? You draw too much attention from the guys?”

“No. The thought of going to the party never really crossed my mind—I’d really rather not talk about it.” Then you give G a pointed look over your shoulder. “Vegas Rules and all.”

\---

For a while, it looked like Tony turned out not to be the type of person you’d initially thought—despite some small, questionable comments here and there. Thus, you were led to the new problem of: what will you do when Victorville has been reached? That thought and those accompanying it had been prominent; at the forefront of your mind for quite some time.

Until Tony pulled into Alien Fresh Jerky and helped alleviate your budding headache.

Styled to look like some eighties futuristic take on an alien spaceship, and filled to the brim with silly sci-fi car models and little green men with bulbous black eyes, the place, while a hilarious novelty, serves to provide solutions for most of a traveler’s needs.

More so if those needs require dried and pickled rations, sauces, confectionaries, drinks, restrooms, and an overabundance of Area 51 and extra-terrestrial memorabilia.

When Tony pulled into the parking lot, you’d assumed that you and G would have to flag down another ride. However, when you’d thanked Tony for his assistance thus far and bid him farewell, he just laughed and asked if you really thought he’d leave you here. Upon your confirmation, he waved you off, insisting that you let him take you the whole way, and to relax while he takes a piss and grabs a couple of drinks.

Perplexed, but not argumentative, you watch him walk into the store only for a moment before opening your car door and shimmying from G’s lap and out of the car.

Amidst your stretch, G, who apparently did decide to nap, opens his orbits and gives you a lazy look.

“Come on,” you call while breathing out, akin to beckoning a dog, “Tony said we’ve at least two and a half hours left. You might want to stretch your legs.”

G takes a moment to just… stare at you, probably contemplating staying in the car out of sheer defiance. He does as you suggest soon after with an accompanied groan, then stands aside as you close the car door. “Why,” he starts with avid, disgruntled revulsion whilst inspecting the area, “are humans so concerned with the lives of other beings.”

He obviously woke up on the wrong side of the…car… door.

Assumedly due to current events, the surrounding area is bustling with packs of alien enthusiasts. Lively even during the night. Or due to the night.

“I don’t know.” You shrug and turn to walk towards the building doors, absentmindedly adjusting your wig and hat. G seems keen on following behind, so you continue. “Maybe they’re looking for another way a life. Something better. Acceptance.” The conversation ends there as the both of you enter the shop and immediately split, interests drawn in different directions.

When next you find G, he’s amongst a crowd of humans who croon and gasp in awe.

Your acquaintance holds a hilariously uncanny resemblance to the surprisingly large, stereotypical extra-terrestrial statue he’s seated next to on the bench. The alien holds its hands high and extended at its sides, both having two of their four fingers stretched out in a peace sign. While G sits in relative silence, somewhere between bored and furious.

“We got ‘em, boys!” Someone yells.

“Let’s see them cheeks!” Yells another.

He manages to catch your eye over the crowd, scowl speaking volumes. As prone to violence as he is, he wouldn’t, you think, but you answer with a knowing smile and furtive shake of your head anyway. The onlooker’s various reactions to G have you almost cackling as you head to the restroom for amity.

Tucked away in a corner at the back of the shop and fairly devoid of customers, you hadn’t expected to be followed and brusquely shoved into the single person restroom. Though, at this point in your life, you should have.

The rough handling sends you stumbling and barely able to catch yourself before you ram into the sink.

Tony leans heavily against the door and rights his hair under your glare. Even has the gall to smile, crooked and malicious.

“Hey, Stacy.” He hums while twisting the lock.

For a moment, with clenched teeth and a weary mind, you almost wish that you weren’t right.

But… this is the person you’d been fishing for. Just didn’t expect the… situation to happen in such a crowded place. Didn’t expect it to be as terrifying as it is.

“You know, Hollywood is a pretty tough place. People ask a lot of you. Sometimes, you have to make choices that you may not like. Maybe they’re… unsavory. But they’re choices. I need you… to make a choice, Stacy.”

It is so very easy to think about what you’ll do to someone before the moment arises.

When it _does_ arrive— when it comes to seeing those thoughts through—

Tony, for whatever reason, seems infinitely calm; completely at peace with whatever it is he thinks he’s about to do to you. Or have you do to him.

That fact alone is somehow sobering. It stills the shaking in your hands and wills your own smile to bloom, albeit small. Because it’s funny that he thinks he’s going to get the chance to take advantage of you.

Bravado impedes comprehension on his end when you leisurely move your hand to the small of your back. Or, perhaps he’s just too enthralled in the way your eyes follow his hands when they move to unbuckle his belt. Too proud of himself for licking his lips and thinking that he’s scared you into submission. “But, hey, you’ve been in Vegas, so you’ve got some idea. You’ll make the right choice.”

Ah, but to see his whole demeanor change when he decides to advance on you and is swiftly met with the business end of a pistol.

Exquisite.

Defense heavy in one hand, you move the other up to steady it. “Oh, I’ve made my choice.”

Thoroughly flabbergasted, Tony releases his belt in light of the new situation and instead rightly decides to hold his palms up and out.

You’ve never known how satisfying the sound of a gun being cocked could be when it wasn’t pointed at you. Or in a restroom with surprisingly good acoustics. “Now, how about you make yours, Tony.”

Tension and theatrics are so much more satisfying when they’re done on your end. “Keys, wallet, phone.” Your head jerks down toward the sink.

He’s taking his time, stalling, either to allow him to think or because he’s scared. Either way, it’s just another thing about today that’s pissing you off. “I don’t have all _night_ , Tony,” you spit quickly and take a step forward as the anger fights for control, “I was just kidding about the choice. Rapists don’t get choices— _hurry the fuck up._ ”

And he does; hastily placing the items down and scooting back into the corner furthest away from the door at your behest. Watching angrily as you almost struggle to shove them into your pockets while still holding him at gunpoint before moving to unlock the door. His want to fight back is clear by the crease between his brows and set of his jaw, but evidently, he hasn’t come up with a tactic.

Just as well.

Items securely acquired; you place a hand on the door with eyes set on Tony.

As you haven’t either. Not really.

“Follow me out, and I’ll shoot.” A reply is not required, nor expected as you sidle out of the restroom.

It’s a race against his nerves now.

“What the fuck?” Comes an indignant cry as soon as you close the door and tuck the gun back into your waistband. “My phone, you fucking asshole!”

You’ve only eyes for G and the exit when you move forward with a quick yet thoughtful gait.

“I said,” a rasping growl starts, and you let loose a frustrated groan, “no pictures.”

Still lounging where you left him, your eyes land on the monster himself, bristled as one of his previous admirers stands poised before him, ready for a fight. A phone lies off to the side, shattered. Impaled by an all too familiar pike.

“When a higher lifeform commands you to—or not to— do something,” G continues with a growing smile served solely to enrage the young man that has, apparently, opposed him, “I suggest you do as you’re told.”

_Oh, for fuck’s—_

Loud and blatantly insistent, you clear your throat whilst making your way over to G and bending at his side, head turned towards his, where a human’s ear would be. “Yes, well, _Mr. Higher Lifeform_ ,” you pronounce emphatically just as the young believer’s comrades push through the gathering crowd and rally to his side, “if you’d be so kind as to accompany me outside, I’ve acquired our ride and would be _just delighted_ if you and I could get the hell out of here as soon as possible— thanks.”

Though the adage “without more goddamn bloodshed and death, you _savage fiend”_ is left unsaid, you’re pretty sure the pursing of your lips and squinting of your eyes gets the point across.

G turns his head then; hand moving to catch your chin and steer you closer; angling your head almost as if to—

Instinctively, your hand shoots to his shoulder— arm straight, strong, and unmoving.

When you make to flinch back, G keeps you in place, hand shifting from your chin to the cusp of your jaw in a caress that is far too gentle, then speaks with a voice that holds a timbre that is far too low. “Good girl.” He practically growls as his smile reaches his orbits.

The frown that pulls at your lips as you actively try to stifle the shiver that runs along your spine only serves to fuel his impertinent arrogance and delight.

“Hey, yo, you tryin’ to get your dick wet?” G’s number one fan injects eloquently. “That’s cool, whatever, but you better do something about my phone before we get real ignorant.”

Right. Okay. “I don’t have time for this.” Muttered quickly after having finally gotten control of yourself, you raise a hand to swat G’s away. Stalling when you find it already falling, and pivoting to make your way back through the crowd.

Then promptly jerk your arm away from one of the believer’s friends; quick to counter with a pointed index finger that hovers mere inches from his face. “Don’t,” you snarl just as the cashier finally manages to get their manager to address the situation, “fucking touch me.”

Face akin to a deer in headlights, the boy freezes, clearly put off by the stance that you’ve taken. You’d laugh, but the lack of will within you only prompts a small, sardonic grin. What must you look like to him? A mother? Babysitter? Perhaps just a facsimile of a bully. Regardless, he does not reach for you again.

The manager, squat and portly, easily pushes his way between you and the boy, whom he mainly focuses on when he says, “take it to another store and parking lot. There are already too many of you—”

You turn with a huff, only sending G a cursory glance before stalking away from the scene, towards the refrigerated beverages whilst pulling out Tony’s wallet.

The cases are skimmed, a bottle of wine is grabbed along with a couple of bags of jerky, and a bill that may or may not be big enough is left with the cashier in passing as you exit the facility.

When you get to the car, G is leaning casually against the passenger’s door. “You good?” he says around a cigarette when you reach for the door’s handle.

Hand halting, you look up and meet that single ruby light and take a moment to breathe out; shoulders sagging just a bit, jaw unclenching.

“I will be.” You’re opening the door and entering the car before he has the chance to answer— if he was going to.

G follows suit quietly, fishing a Zippo lighter from his jacket just as Tony bursts through the entrance of Alien Fresh Jerky.

He’s yelling something of little significance, and you’re clicking your seatbelt into place and locking the doors. By the time G has successfully lit his cigarette, Tony has latched onto the mirror of your door and proceeds to beat angrily against the window.

“Let go of the car, Tony.” You sigh out while adjusting the rearview mirror.

G settles further into his seat, grinning wide. “I think he wants to talk to you.”

“Stacy, Stacy—”

“You don’t say.” Humming, you start the car and shift gears. “Been a while since I’ve driven stick.”

“You fucking cunt, get out—”

“You got it?” G rolls his window down.

“I got it.” You nod, honking as passersby stand behind the car and watch Tony in his crazed stupor. “Tony, I’m already doing the world a disservice by letting you live— get away from the car _.”_

G chuckles heartily at your exasperation and flicks his ashes out of the window.

“Stacy, listen to me. I helped you.” Tony whines against the windows, then slides until he’s on the hood of the car where you’re forced to look at him. “You can’t do this to me, I—”

And you do, face contorted into one of clear revulsion.

“You, uh,” G says between laughing and gestures toward the windshield, “got somethin’—”

A smile breaks through your frown, and you hate it.

Shaking your head, you tilt and reach for the windshield wipers. With luck, you press the button that sprays as well. “Did,” now you’re laughing, “did I get it?”

“Nah, I think—” G starts, snorting as Tony flounces about when you pull out of the spot and alternate between your brake and accelerator, “maybe the wind will knock it off.”

With the way now clear of pedestrians, you turn and wait until its clear to merge onto the street. And while Tony continues to prattle on and bang against the car, you focus behind you as the doors to Alien Fresh Jerky once again burst open. “I… think your fans want to talk to you for a little bit longer.”

G tilts to look over his shoulder, hand shooting out to connect with Tony’s face as he tries to worm his way in through the open window. The adamant believer’s stop to question a couple outside, before turning and booking it towards the two of you. “Unless you want ‘em hurt, I suggest driving.” He says, then grunts as he practically drags Tony from his perch with little to no effort, much to Tony’s screeching dismay.

“Fair enough.” A comment thrown offhand as you watch Tony go, nonplussed.

G pulls his hand back and uses it to grab his cigarette and flick more ash out of the window. “Got rid of that thing for ‘ya.”

After a short pause interrupted by your snort of laughter, you turn and merge onto the street.

\---

The moon, full, fat, and beautiful, hangs low at twenty-five past three.

After about a half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, you’d delegated driving to G; were quick to give him a rundown of driving manual and continue to throw tips when you feel necessary. All the while, you have yourself a well-deserved drink.

“You’re a natural. M’jealous.” You take a moment to sniff and giggle to yourself. “Took me like… a month to get used to drivin’ stick.”

After shaking Tony from the car and merging onto the I-15, G discovered the retraction button of the newly dubbed convertible and you wasted no time lowering the roof.

The wind is gentle, lukewarm and at a mild enough noise level that the radio can be heard. Nothing at all like the jarring wind from yesterday. A nice change.

“Granted, Carmella’s boyfriend was a shit teacher and that car was… absolute garbage _._ But at seventeen, that’s all I could get— point is: are you sure you haven’t driven stick before?” Your head lolls to the side when you go to look at him, bleary-eyed and wearing a silly, far too affectionate smile while raising a hand to nudge him for good measure.

Is it the rhythm of the downbeat music, or the hitch in G’s grin around his cigarette butt that has your hips shifting and teeth catching the inside of your lip?

You turn away just as he rolls the cigarette between his teeth, and lift the bottle for another swig.

Oh, right, it’s the alcohol.

“Pretty sure, sweetheart.” G says with a chuckle and the inflection that almost every sober person uses when dealing with a maudlin friend, tilting his head and allowing you to see that bright red light.

But you don’t mind his tone. As a matter of fact, you decide that it’s an invitation to ask another question. “Hey, what were your teen years like?”

G as a whole is alien to you. But what better place to start? Who doesn’t have at least one fond memory from when they were young? Is he almost ancient like the King, Queen, and a handful of other known monsters? Young enough to have been born underground? Surely, he isn’t currently what monsters would equate to a ‘teen.’

Hopefully.

All at once, G’s smile wanes and he turns away, removes what’s left of the cigarette from his mouth and flicks it into the coin holder before shifting gears. Then he breathes deeply, chest slowly expanding and hollowing while he takes his time answering— or rather, debates on whether he should answer at all.

He doesn’t take a terribly long time but is silent long enough that you regret asking.

“I don’t remember.”

An answer that… raises so many more questions; all of which you lack the insensitivity and nerve to ask. Because, even in your inebriated state, you still know how to read the metaphorical room. “Okay.” You then offer a smile you’re not sure he can see, eyes rolling to take in the illuminated landscape.

The radio personality switches to a new song, some amalgamation of punk-rock and EDM with deep, synthesized vocals. Wind, music, and the car engine are all that can be heard after that, joining together amicably to supplement the reticence between the two of you. G doesn’t seem exceptionally bothered by your question and you’d like to think you’re lack of insistence lent to that outcome. But, then again, he very well may be irritated.

You’re not sure if you’re any good at reading him.

“Hey.”

So lost in your own musings that you almost miss his call.

“Hm?” You perk up a bit.

“How much longer do we have?”

Good question.

“Uh,” a moment is taken to focus, “probably about two hours, maybe a little less, I think. We’re going downtown, so it’ll be a little further.” You adjust to sit more comfortably while turning away from him and wedging the half-full bottle between your thighs. “So, hey, you’re not, like, underage, are you?”

“Do I _look_ underage?”

“You _look_ like a skeletal cryptid.” You comment dryly, much to his amusement, “I don’t know man; I don’t think human ger, uh, g-gentro—“

“Gerontology. And, no, it’s not.” G corrects just as dryly, grinning at your unjustifiably triumphant _“right!”_

“Sweets, I’m older than you.”

“When you say ' _older,'_ are we talking a couple of years, or could you be my father—"

That sudden blooming Cheshire grin of his will always be unnerving.

“With you in being in your late-twenties,” he hums pensively, them snorts, “I can’t be your dad, but I’ll be your daddy.”

“C’mon, man,” the rejoinder is all but a whine, and your free hand moves to rest over your eyes in a clear sign of defeat. “Yesterday I said ' _dad.'_ Today, I said _'father,'_ not— ugh.”

It’s not even a good joke.

“Getting religious, huh?”

“What— no, you’re _definitely_ reaching.”

Seemingly in thought, he leans further back into his seat, gloved hand hooking his chin. “Father G sounds weird, but I wouldn’t mind you moaning it while I bite into that pretty little neck of yours. Could get used to it.”

This discussion has you recoiling; thoroughly surprised even though you shouldn’t be.

“Horny on main. An interest in neck biting— yeah, you’re definitely a cryptid.” You shake your head and sigh, hand lifting and waving about tenuously. “I went to Area 51 and left with a vampire.” A dismal undertone more to yourself than him. “Where’s my shirt?” It’s a joke, but the probability of there being a shirt out there that reads those exact words is high. “How about I just stick to ‘G’?”

He almost looks displeased by the question, grin drooping for the barest of moments before it picks back up in an intimidating display. “You know what, doll? You’re right. You just stick to screamin’ my name while I’m ridin’ ‘ya and we’ll be fine.”

The need to take another swig hits you like a sack of potatoes to the gut. “Dude, I don’t even know what you’re workin’ with.” You also don’t know why you bothered saying that aloud and prompting his response.

“We’ll fix that when we get to the hotel.” The counterclaim is immediate, as if he anticipated you saying that.

He’d better anticipate you passing the hell out as soon as your head hits the pillow, too.

Before you begin even remotely entertaining the thought of sexual intercourse with G, you change the subject to something more important. “Anyway, we’ve got to ditch the car when we get a bit closer. I wanted to have it run itself into a canyon, or at the very least leave it burning somewhere, but with my luck, I’d take the whole state out.”

G regards you with a languid lift of his brow; a look you simply shrug off and take a pointed mouthful from the bottle to.

**_“That was “Funeral for a Broken Heart” by Mettaton in collaboration with the up and coming Syldraph. Be sure to stay tuned in to see how to win tickets to the world-renown superstar’s upcoming concert at the Hollywood Bowl this Saturday. With the show being sold out, you won’t be able—”_ **

“How far is that?” G holds a sudden authoritative agency that catches you completely off-guard.

The last time he’d sounded like that, the two of you were stuck in a bathroom, being surrounded by goons. “What? How far is what?” You ask whilst sitting straighter and rubbing at your eyes.

“The Hollywood Bowl— from where you’re taking us.” He moves to place another cigarette between his teeth.

You stumble, unsure of where he’s going with this. “Uh— uh, twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Depends on the traffic,” you pause, turning to give him a wide-eyed stare, “you… you’re not … interested in Mettaton’s concert, are you?” Of anyone you would have guessed that G would be interested in musically, and you hadn’t, Mettaton fell last on that list.

The flame of his lighter catches the tip of the cigarette and he inhales deeply. Smoke wisps thickly out of his nasal cavity and teeth and is hastily blown away as he exhales, his rictus grin growing, “Oh,” he says thickly with a chuckle, smile pulling and twisting into that same wide, signature snarl he gets when downing droves of adversaries, _“yes.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two.  
> Thank you for your time.


End file.
